


and this is how it feels (to take a fall)

by batofgoodintent (crownedcrusader)



Series: 5 times Kon doesn't have a good day and 1 where he still doesn't [1]
Category: DCU, DCU (Comics), Red Robin (Comics), Superboy (Comics)
Genre: Anxiety, Conner-centric, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, PTSD, consistent mentions of kons death and return, kon-centric, like thats it thats the whole fic, tim doesnt cope well with kons death and kon doesnt cope well with it either
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-25
Updated: 2019-03-25
Packaged: 2019-12-07 19:56:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18239513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crownedcrusader/pseuds/batofgoodintent
Summary: Everyone knows that Conner's death emotionally wrecked Tim.Too bad it also wrecked Conner.(alt: the traumatized hero's guide to coping mechanisms, and what to do when your recovery plan is in direct opposition your loved one's coping mechanisms)





	and this is how it feels (to take a fall)

**Author's Note:**

> just a foreword: 
> 
> your partner isnt your therapist. 
> 
> tim isnt in the wrong in this fic.  
> and kon isnt selfish for wanting support. 
> 
> they have needs that are in direct opposition to each other's. neither of them are bad.

“It’s not that I’m not fast at math, or even that I’m not good at it,” Bart says as he, Conner, and Tim crowd into the Titans lounge. “But a three-page worksheet?”

“Front and back?” Conner asks from the other side of the couch, where he’s also working on homework.

Bart holds up the pages and flips them over to show the algebra populating their backsides. Conner winces in sympathy.

“Sorry, bud. But I can’t feel too bad for you, ‘cause that’ll be me next week, I’ll bet you anything,” Kon says. “I’ll be up to my ears. And when that happens, just—” He mimes slitting his throat with his pencil. “—end me right then and there.”

Bart laughs, understands the joke better than anyone on the team currently. But before they can continue their conversation, they hear someone shuffle books loudly. Angry-loud. Meant to be noticed, angry-loud.

Then Tim gathers up his books and walks out of the room.

Kon’s eyes widen, and he listens to his boyfriend’s—his new, _brand new_ boyfriend, as in _just got together last week_ —heartbeat. But he’s frozen in place until Tim leaves and slams the door behind him.

“What was that about?” Kon asks.

Bart looks guilty for maybe half a second before he starts chewing on his pencil and trying to hammer out a few more problems. “The whole you dying thing,” Bart says. “He’s not a big fan.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” Bart uses just a flicker of superspeed to hammer through two, three, four problems in the blink of an eye—Kon can only watch because of his own, and he’s a little jealous at how quickly Bart’s brain works in conjunction to the worksheet. “Depression memes are in, but ones with you at the center…”

“They’re out, yeah, I get it.” Conner lets out a huff of air through his nose, but he doesn’t argue. Doesn’t want to make things worse with Tim, to break the fragile thing they’ve just started. “I’ll be good. No depression memes here.”

And he means it. While Bart’s not really paying attention, Kon pauses his work and tries to make a real mental note of that. He wants to be a good boyfriend, he really does, so he can do this for Tim. It’s not even a big deal or anything.

It’s just steering clear of poor jokes. No big, right?

\--

“Yeah, we could probably make a whole support group of people who’ve died and come back through weird circumstances.”

When Wally says it, he’s not totally joking. And when Conner laughs, it’s more nervous than anything. He’s not really doing it because he thinks its _funny_. There’s this odd pit in his chest sometimes, when he thinks back to his death and resurrection. And Wally’s offer isn’t a real offer, at least, Kon’s pretty sure it’s not. But the thought of talking about what happened with someone sounds… _nice_. Really nice.

“A support group would be- that could be cool,” Kon says. He rubs the back of his neck, not totally looking at Wally, or anyone else for that matter. He almost looks bashful. His face isn’t supposed to feel this hot, and yet, here it is.

Tim, though. Tim tenses beside him, muscles seizing up where Kon has his arm around his boyfriend’s shoulders. “The mission is over. Thank you for joining us, Flash,” he says a little stiffly. “We appreciated the assistance of an extra speedster.”

“What, I wasn’t enough?” Bart asks, almost sulky, and Conner winces.

“Hey, if we leave now there should be that pizza joint still open,” he says immediately, mostly to diffuse the tension. And it’s not even just the tension between Bart and Wally, with all those old rivalry issues. There’s this odd pinching feeling in his stomach, tied to how Tim had changed the subject so quickly.

But no matter how much Kon sort of wants to pursue… whatever it is, with Wally, with talking to him about what’s happened to them—

For some reason, it kind of feels like Tim doesn’t want him to.

It’s not really any of Tim’s business or decision how Conner copes, but it makes him feel all kinds of gross that his boyfriend wouldn’t even want him to _pursue_ feeling better. The subject’s long gone, though, and Conner tries not to feel too disappointed when Wally just says another round of goodbyes before shooting off to Central City.

It feels like he’s missed his opportunity. And three weeks after being brought back, it kind of feels like he won’t get another one.

\--

“I’m serious! There’s not a defining thing that says a cult has to be a religion,” Kara says.

“Well, in that case, couldn’t a cult be about anything?” Conner licks at his ice cream cone, appreciating his older sort-of-cousin-maybe treating him. Sure, they’re just in the Titans Tower, not at some fancy ice cream parlor, but honestly, Kon prefers it this way sometimes. He can just wear his t-shirt and float rather than sit properly on the couch, too, which is way more fun. “Like, if it doesn’t even have to be religion-y, then what even are the defining things?”

“Just a group of people who isolate themselves from the world, who engage in a lot of strict information control and who are working together for a common purpose.”

“And super creepy,” Conner says. “Like, mega-creepy. Pretty sure that’s the real defining characteristic.”

Kara laughs, but when Conner looks away from his cousin, he realizes his mistake. Cassie and Tim are standing in the doorway. And neither looks particularly happy.

Cassie especially, who definitely was part of a cult to revive him. Conner winces.  

“It’s—they aren’t all…” Cassie starts, and Tim puts a hand on her arm.

“I’m sure he didn’t mean it that way,” Tim says. “Just poor timing.”

Uh, actually, Conner definitely does think it _was_ creepy that his girlfriend was part of a cult for him and he really wishes she hadn’t been because that couldn’t have been great for her. But he nods anyways, knowing that his foot-in-mouth syndrome is being given an easy cure and he would prefer not to make his ex-girlfriend cry right now.

“I was talking about the religion-y ones and the ones where people wanna take over the world, and the ones where people are like, pod-people who never interact with society anymore except to kill people or whatever,” Conner lies. And fortunately for him, Kara doesn’t contradict him. “Like Brother Blood. Oof.”

“Oh,” Cassie says. “Yeah, that… I still can’t believe he had so many followers. Honestly, how do you recruit that many people?”

The conversation continues on, and Kon feels better—genuinely better—now that everyone’s getting along again. But when Tim sits down beside him and they share a few licks of his remaining ice cream, Conner can’t help this nagging feeling that his input wasn’t just for _Cassie’s_ benefit.

When they’re alone again, and Kara and Cassie go somewhere to facetime Stephanie, Conner turns to his boyfriend with an uncharacteristically serious expression.

“Would you have joined a cult, too?”

Tim almost chokes on his ice cream. “No,” he says after he catches his breath. “We—you know what things I did try. That wasn’t one of them.”

Tim has to mean the whole… cloning thing. And asking every single person capable of resurrecting the dead—including Raven.

Kon winces. “Right. Hey. I—I get why you…”

“Do you?”

Kon opens his mouth to say something—anything. But before the words come, Tim hands him his ice cream cone again.

“Don’t bring this up again,” Tim says, and he sounds so tired that Kon can’t help but feel bad. “Please.”

“Okay,” Kon says.

And he doesn’t. Not intentionally, anyways.

\--

There are misspeaks over the next few months, because of course there are. It’s _Conner_. Foot-in-mouth syndrome is his worst trait.

But he tries. Really, really tries. And it helps that no one else really wants to bring it up with him, either, so he kind of gets used to not talking about it with anyone. Not with Clark, even when Clark occasionally brings up gaps in his own Super career. Not with Bart, even when Bart was gone for about the same amount of time and came back the same day as Kon. Not with Kara, or Cassie, or even Ma.

It feels like the right thing to do when it keeps everyone around him happy and thinking he’s well-adjusted. It’s just… He’s not sure how helpful it is, for his own well-being. Which, yes, he does occasionally think about. Sometimes.

The thing is, the more he ignores it, the longer the worst symptoms linger. And Conner swears it’s getting worse.

Near the beginning, he didn’t have nightmares near as much. But now? He wakes up covered in sweat and gasping for breath at least three times a night.

And any mention of Superboy Prime… Even knowing that he helped put the bastard away for good, it still makes him feel like throwing up, remembering the fight that put him in the ground.  

One of the few things he can agree with Tim on is that any news footage covering the Superboy Prime battle can go right to hell. He turns it off whenever he sees it. Sometimes, he has to use his TTK to switch off the TV or change the channel, even, because his hands start shaking so bad.

But when he does it in front of anyone, Tim’s usually there, and his boyfriend always gives him this—this grateful smile, like Kon’s being considerate.

His mouth feels dry every time it happens, and he doesn’t know how to say that it’s not for Tim’s sake that he does it. Doesn’t know how to say that it’s because every time he sees Superboy Prime and he can’t immediately punch the bastard, it just reminds him of how he got driven into the ground. He’s always fight, rarely flight, but when that fails him and he doesn’t have something tangible to fight, it’s hard not to feel empty and anxious and sad.

\--

“You want to tell me why your comms went down and you were unresponsive for twenty minutes?”

Tim sounds angry— _pissed_ , even.

But Conner’s chest still feels like it’s going to collapse. He feels phantom punctured lungs and broken bones, feels his TTK field wavering and expanding at random, a little out of his control when he’s this shaken up.

“No,” he manages, voice hoarse.

Tim gives him a sharp look. “We needed you out there, Kon. What the hell were you doing?”

It had taken ages to pry himself free of the rubble after the explosion had gone off too close to him. And most of that time, Kon had been underneath it, trying not to hyperventilate.

Because though Superboy Prime had been the one to beat him almost, _almost_ to death, it had been the collapsing tower that had fully killed him. It had buried him under rubble and punctured his skin and hurt him beyond even what his near-invulnerability could match.

The rubble had cleared mostly by itself. But by the time people found him—Nightwing and maybe Cassie, he thinks, though his memories are so, _so_ fucked—he was already dying.

His stomach roils just at the thought, and it’s all he can do not to puke again.

He’s pretty sure that in the tiny space he was trapped today, he puked at least twice. He still wants to wash his mouth out.

Conner’s face feels hot, and his forehead beads with sweat. He wipes at it with his forearm and takes a few breaths.

But though Tim’s expression slowly morphs from anger to something else, it isn’t a soft look. Not something consoling, or gentle. Instead, he looks tense. Like he knows that whatever Conner’s struggling with, it has a hell of a lot to do with last year.

“Get back to the Tower and take the rest of today off,” Tim finally says. “The rest of us will handle clean-up.”

Conner waits for the rest—waits for the usual, ‘but we’re going to _talk_ about this later, when you feel better.’

It doesn’t come.

When he realizes that Tim isn’t even going to ask, it feels like he’s been slapped. A chasm opens up in his chest, but no matter how empty he feels, he can’t do that to his boyfriend. He just can’t. So he slowly gets to his feet and flies back towards the Titans Tower.

He pukes a third time, then stays in bed for the rest of the day.

When Tim brings him soup and a sandwich six hours later, he pretends like nothing happened at all, and Kon’s just feeling under the weather.

Conner’s not sure why, but that might be the worst part.

\--

As bad as Kon feels, though, and as much as he’s struggling, he gets it.

Really. He _gets_ it. Coming back from the dead is pretty much par for the course in terms of superhero-ing. In his heart of hearts, he wouldn’t even _want_ a lot of attention or invasive questions about his death or how he came back or if he felt different or if he had any lingering trauma.

He’s not big on prying questions. And through his life, the few people that have tried to ask them got shut down pretty quickly.

When Tana died, Tim and Bart had tried to ask if he was okay, tried to be there for him, but his voice had cracked when he told them to drop it. And they had.

Maybe it was because back then, he’d been a bit of a wildcard with most of the powers of Superman. Of _course_ no one wanted to push him when he was already feeling unstable.

But he’s been more level-headed for a while now. It’s just that the prying questions—the concern—seems to have died and stayed dead now that he’s older. He wants to say that he appreciates it. He really does.

But there’s something in the way people react to his death that makes his stomach feel heavy and empty all at once.

Like now. Like, being in the cave with his Tim and the other Bats.

Jason had cracked a joke about dying—“Please, Dick, what’s the Penguin going to do? _Kill_ me? Pretty sure I’ve been vaccinated for that.”

And Kon had laughed despite himself. Like, yeah, Jason had definitely tried to kill Tim once and Kon still wasn’t okay with that but he also was something of a connoisseur of good jokes, and that one hadn’t been bad. When Tim had made a distinctly unhappy face, Kon had just cleared his throat and said, “Sorry, just—relatable, you know?”

“I _don’t_ know,” Tim had said. Stiff and monotone.

Conner had tried to play it off. “Yeah, no, I think you do know. Look, come on, Jason gets to joke about it. I can’t even laugh at relatable memes now?”

It was a joke, sort of. But it also feels like being brushed off so many times is catching up to him.

But then Tim had gone stiff and tense, and Conner grudgingly had to remember that his death had, over and over again, been deemed off limits.

It’s just that Kon doesn’t really _get_ _it_ anymore.

Tim doesn’t react that way to Stephanie’s death (or ‘death’) the way he does to Kon’s. And as much as Kon would love to believe that he’s just got a trump card on Tim’s heart, he also knows that his boyfriend has loved other people. Stephanie included.

So he just feels a little confused at Tim’s distance.

“You okay, Tim?” he asks, and reaches to put a hand on Tim’s shoulder. But Tim abruptly pulls away and stands up, and that’s enough of a cue for Kon. He puts his hands up, palms out in surrender. “I’ll leave you to the mission parameters then, geez,” he says, pretending like he doesn’t know just how bad he messed up.

But the thing is, he doesn’t feel like he’s the one who messed up.

Why is it that Jason and Stephanie and anyone else can joke about their deaths, but Kon can’t?

More than that, Kon feels like he’s one of the only people around who doesn’t really get to… to talk about it. It was a tragedy and people were upset—yeah, he gets it. He made Ma bury her grandson, he made his then-girlfriend, Cassie, watch as he died in her arms. He was one of many deaths in a long string of losses for Tim—and he gets it. It was a hard, hard, hard year for his boyfriend.

Conner wants to believe that the pinched feeling in his stomach is from making Tim feel bad. But Conner also knows that he’s more selfish than that, and that the pinched feeling comes from somewhere a little more self-obsessed. That’s probably what Clark would think, anyways.

He purses his lips, and looks up at the cave ceiling.

After letting Tim talk with his siblings for a bit, Kon finally stands up and approaches him. Fortunately, the meeting and mission-parameters look like they’ve been finished up. But honestly, Kon wouldn’t have cared if they weren’t. He doesn’t put a hand on Tim’s shoulder this time, still feeling a little gross from the ‘don’t touch me’ vibes Tim had put out before. “Do you actually need me on this mission, or would you be happier if I went back to Kansas?”

It’s blunter than he means it to be, and he sees Tim’s eyes narrow behind the mask; sees his brows furrow just a little until there’s a crease between them. “You were never assigned as part of this mission,” Tim says, a little slowly. “But I thought you’d be here when I got back?”

“Depends on how much you want me to be here,” Kon says. Then, because he’s still feeling a little gross, “And how much I want to be here.”

The latter part of that sentence looks like it didn’t occur to Tim. Kon almost feels bad for pointing it out. But it’s how he feels, damn it, and it’s been a while since he’s gotten a chance to feel much at all.

“Do you _want_ to be here?”

Kon bites the side of his lip. Then he purses them, neither a ‘yes’ nor a ‘no’ coming easily. His hesitation seems to be all Tim needs, because his boyfriend finally sighs and goes on his toes to press a kiss on Kon’s cheek.

“If you change your mind, you can come back. You know Alfred will let you in,” Tim says. He looks into Conner’s eyes for a moment, something indecisive in his eyes. Or maybe Kon’s just imagining things, because that stupid mask is still on. “You don’t need to feel bad about upsetting me a minute ago. If that’s why you’re leaving-”

That pit in his stomach, that pinched feeling—it feels about a thousand times worse, hearing that.

“That’s not why,” he says, and it’s a lot more curt than it needs to be. He swears in his head, then counts to three before he can lose his temper. “I—that’s not why. I’ll text you, okay? Be safe.” Because the last thing he needs is for Tim to be distracted and get hurt. Another layer of emotion adds itself to the chasm that is Kon’s feelings, and he’s pretty sure it’s guilt. He kisses Tim’s cheek just as his boyfriend did a minute ago, then pulls away. “See you.”

Tim looks at him with something unreadable in his eyes. But then Dick says something from half across the cave, and he turns around to pay attention.

Kon leaves before Tim can turn back around.

\--

When Conner gets to Kansas, that feeling in his chest doesn’t get any better. The empty feeling in his stomach is still there. He’s got half a mind to shove a pint of ice cream and half a pie inside him to fill it, but the thought of eating sounds almost as bad as feeling his boyfriend tense up at the mere mention of Kon’s death.

Instead, he says an uncharacteristically subdued “hey” to Ma, then heads right up to his room.

He doubts he’ll sleep. But the comfort of old quilts and soft sheets sounds a hell of a lot better than facing anything outside of his room for the next few hours.

His doubts are right, because just after he strips his jeans off and changes into a sleep-shirt, but before his head even hits his pillow, Kon’s struck by _thoughts_. And not the fun kind of thoughts, or the useful kind.

Instead, all he can think about are the times when he’s woken up in a cold sweat from nightmares he can’t quite remember. Or the ones he says he can’t remember, but knows deep in his gut are memories from…

From something. From beyond. From dying, kicking the bucket, the void, heaven, hell, purgatory, or the clone-variation of any of those things—whatever you want to call it. Memories and twisted nightmares of the place he’d been when he was dead.

And it’s like he can’t talk about any of it.

He can’t talk about it when he wakes in the middle of the night and goes down to the Titans Tower gym to work away the anger and existential dread. It hurts that not once has anyone asked why he’s upset. And there have been plenty of night owls there, too. Everyone has their own demons, Kon knows that much. Maybe they can assume, maybe they just don’t care. He doesn’t know.

He _does_ know that he’s asked some of them what _their_ deal is and why they’re down there at ass o’clock in the morning.

But somehow the question never quite pops up for him.

The pinched feeling in his stomach gets tighter, and he grabs a spare pillow to hug tight against his chest. Not tight enough to ruin, but tight enough to remind him that it’s the only thing he’s got right now.

Even waking up from nightmares _here_ , at the _farm_ , hasn’t been much help. Ma’s a saint, and Conner knows he doesn’t deserve her. But when he feels lost, there’s only so much she asks. She’d be happier to just give him a hug and tell him that “it’s alright now that you’re back, dear.”

And she means well. God, he knows she means well.

But it doesn’t always _feel_ alright. The world _changed_ in the year he was gone. Conner doesn’t know if he changed, too, or if he’s just the same and everyone’s moved on without him.

The only thing that _feels_ different about himself is the nightmares.

The nightmares, and the way his skin sometimes feels like it’s crawling for no reason. Or how his heart sometimes skips a beat when he sees old pictures of Clark when he was a kid, because he looked so much like Superboy Prime with his hair cut like that. Or when he’s on missions and he’s getting whaled on—and just because he has invulnerability doesn’t mean it doesn’t sometimes hurt, doesn’t mean he doesn’t sometimes remember being beaten almost-to-death and then getting back up and—and…

Or the last mission. When they’d been fighting and a building had collapsed around them.

Just remembering it makes Conner close his eyes tight and breathe in off-rhythm through his nose. A few breaths are too fast and his controlled ones are much too slow and with such a discrepancy between his breathing, he feels like he’s going to pass out.

He doesn’t even _need_ oxygen as much as a regular human. So why does his head feel like it’s spinning all wrong?

It takes a while for him to collect himself. But once he does, he rolls over and stares at the ceiling.

It’s just dark enough outside that he remembers all the times he’s woken from nightmares here. And god, doesn’t that just make him feel worse, remembering _those_ bastards.

But right now, he doesn’t even think about the nightmares about empty space and a thousand years of nothing but also everything but also being horribly, utterly alone with his thought, but also a heaven with the grassy hills all wrong.

Instead, he thinks about Tim.

Because here’s the thing—Conner knows he’s woken from nightmares around Tim, before.

They’re kind of fuzzy memories since he was so hazy with sleep and anxiety. But he remembers that Tim was there. And he remembers the gentle look in his boyfriend’s eyes as Tim tried to calm him.

But he also remembers that sometimes—sometimes Tim starts to ask him what his nightmare was about.

And Kon remembers wanting, a little desperately, to tell him. To tell someone. Anyone. Just so it stops feeling like he’s the only one carrying around these memories of a thousand years of nothingness.

But his stomach drops as he remembers Tim stopping himself. _Stopping himself_ , then looking guilty and anxious as he runs a hand through Kon’s hair. He’s never once finished asking Kon what his nightmares were about, or even how he’s feeling or what’s on his mind. And Kon knows good and well that it’s because they both know _exactly_ what Kon’s struggling with.

And Tim just doesn’t want a reminder that Conner was dead.

That’s what it boils down to, at the heart of it. Tim just doesn’t want the reminder, no matter how much Kon needs to get it off his chest. It makes Tim feel bad—maybe it brings him back, a little, to the place that he was in when everyone he loved was dead.

Kon _gets_ why Tim doesn’t want to go back there.

But the thing is, Kon has never really _wanted_ to talk about his issues—not before he died, anyways. In the wise words of John Mulaney, his life plan was something like this: “I’ll keep my emotions right here, and then one day, I’ll die.”

Well, now Conner _has_ died. And come back. And all those feelings are still right where he left them. _Plus_ new ones, awful ones, directly related to that death. Ones that he sees when he goes to sleep, and sometimes when he’s awake and doesn’t want them. Either way, he has very little say in his flashbacks.

And he doesn’t know what to do with them. Doesn’t know what to do with the people around him who don’t want to talk about it.

Cassie doesn’t want to talk about it any more than Tim does. And they’re exes, anyways. He’d feel weird going to her. Bart, he could _try_ —the kid’s grown up a lot since their Young Justice days. But he knows their experiences were different. He doesn’t know how Bart would react, and the crux of it is that part of him still sees Bart as a kid brother sometimes. A guy he wants to protect, not… not burden with his problems.

And most of their Young Justice team has been out of contact for ages now. He can’t just call up Greta or Cissie or Slobo and tell them that he’s feeling a little blue and a little manic and a lot anxious sometimes.

Lex is right out. Clark isn’t much better, though admittedly, Conner has tried. Sort of. It just… hasn’t worked so well. It’s hard to have a real conversation with someone who’s got that big a guilt complex. Kara, maybe. _Maybe_. But would she react in a way that’d be helpful? He’s not sure.

Honestly, Kon’s not sure about a lot.

He knows that he wants to talk about it, but it also feels like he wants to make any excuse in the world not to.

And worse, Kon’s pretty sure he’s flat-out missed his window of opportunity. It’s been almost six months. The world’s long since moved on. They feel hurt remembering his death. So it doesn’t matter how he feels about it—doesn’t matter how choked and strained and anxious he feels. He should just be the bigger person and never, ever mention it to them. That’s all there is to it, right?

Just as he’s decided that that’s what he’s got to keep doing, he feels a hand on his shoulder.

Conner rockets out of his bed so fast it’s almost funny. Almost. It takes only half a second to get oriented the other way around to see his attacker, only to find that it’s Tim. Just Tim.

He furrows his brow at his boyfriend.

“How’d you get here so fast?” he asks. Because last he checked, Tim was in _Gotham_.

Tim opens his mouth, then closes it, as if debating the ‘how’. “Clark,” he finally admits. “Can you tell me why you didn’t come back to the manor?”

“I honestly forgot about coming back once I got here.” It’s not a lie, either. Between the pit in his stomach and his self-pity, Kon hadn’t really been thinking about flying back, and frankly, he isn’t sure if he’d feel up to it if he tried. “Sorry.”

It sounds a little too monotone, and Kon knows it, but he doesn’t try to correct it. He just feels _tired_.

And between his voice and the fact that Kon had been in bed but not asleep or on his laptop or reading or _anything_ , at _six in the evening_ —it’s enough to tell Tim that something’s wrong.

Tim chews on the side of his cheek. Then he sits down and pats the space beside him—a reminder that Kon’s still floating. Guiltily, Kon sinks back down to the bed. He takes a seat next to his boyfriend and hopes this will all be over soon.

“Talk to me,” Tim says. “What’s eating you? Is this still about Jason’s joke, and your—” And there it is. Tim catches himself, swallows audibly, then looks anywhere but at Kon. “Your… response?”

Kon grips the quilt in his hands, tight enough that he’s a little afraid he might rip the covers. Not the first time. Probably not the last. He still doesn’t try to unclench his fists. Not when he needs so badly to feel grounded. “My response,” he repeats, just as flat as the words deserve to be said. “You could say that. But you don’t want to talk about it with me. So just… don’t. It’s obviously too much for you, so it’s fine.”

The words sound bitter even to him.

Kon wants to smack himself, he really does. How selfish can he _be_ , playing his tone like that when he knows—when he _knows_ —just how much his death had hurt Tim.

But that empty _thing_ inside of him just makes him feel so lost. It’s hard not to lash out when it’s all he knows.

Tim, though. Tim looks like he’s been slapped.

“Am I supposed to be the one apologizing? Is that why you’re upset?” Tim asks, like it’s such an awful thing. “For not wanting to dwell on the fact that you _died_?”

Kon’s hands dig further into the blanket. He feels it break, and his fingernails press tightly into his palm. “That’s not—No. Not exactly. I. I…” He takes a breath, in through his nose and out, slower than he wants, but he needs _some_ kind of control if he’s going to last through this. “I get why you… Why you can’t talk about it.”

“Then stop bringing it up.”

“Not all of us can—can just…”

Conner takes another breath, then unclenches his hands. They get caught in the new holes in his quilt, and it takes him a second to figure out how to get them out. He’s sure Tim’s looking at him by now, but honestly, Conner’s doing good just to feel here and present. He presses his palms to his eyes and sucks in a breath. And then another. And then he slowly lets them out, and in, and out, and in. Until it feels a little more normal.

“We can’t all just pretend it didn’t happen,” he finally says, the words coming out easier than before now that he’s taken a second to breathe. “You… didn’t live through it.”

“I did, actually.” Tim’s voice is hard. “I lived through you being gone.”

“You weren’t the one who—” Conner’s voice hitches. “Fuck. Forget it. You’re pissed, I get it.”

Conner can’t see Tim with how his hands are in front of his face. Can’t see much of anything, but that’s a million times better than the anger or disappointment he expects would be on Tim’s face.

“Am I not supposed to be angry? You know how I feel about this.”

“Fine,” Kon says. “Fine, it’s—it’s fine. Be mad. Just go, please, I don’t want you in here right now, I can’t be what you need me to be right now so just _go_.”

It comes out in a rush. He doesn’t mean half of it, except for maybe he does, but his chest feels stuck and frozen and it’s all he can do to be here, and fine, and breathing. Breathing’s not that essential to his functioning, he knows, but he’s gotten used to it and it feels wrong and sets off his anxiety if he stops.

Which is also possibly related to dying. Go figure.

His breathing gets a little faster despite his best efforts, but hey, at least he’s breathing, right? At least he’s breathing.

Tim stands up, his weight leaving and shifting the bed—and Kon thinks he might actually go.

Instead, Tim just moves in front of Kon. When Kon finally peeks through his fingers and gets a look at his boyfriend just so he knows what to expect—yelling, a lecture, or _what_ —all he sees is concern.

“Kon,” he says, and tries to take his boyfriend’s wrists. “Conner. Look at me.”

Conner shakes his head. He’s been dwelling on this for too long today. Between their earlier conversation and the flight home and the memories of their most recent mission, and now _this_ , Conner doesn’t feel well at all.

But a sudden wetness against his palms startles him. He’s a little surprised that he’s crying, but honestly, today’s been embarrassing enough that a few tears are just the tip of the iceberg. Tim’s already seen him curled up in bed before nine pm; of _course_ he had to see Kon cry, too.

“Look at me,” Tim repeats, voice still soft, but firmer this time. More like when he’s Robin— _Red_ Robin now, as per the year Kon was gone, _fuck_ —“Conner. _Look_ at me.”

Kon finally does. He wipes his eyes, then removes his hands from his face and looks at his boyfriend. Tim still has mask lines, he notices. And he’s looking at Kon like he’s the most important thing in the world.

“Take a deep breath. –Like that. Good,” he says, as Kon instinctively does it. “Five more. Slowly. Now count to ten in your head between breaths to slow them down further.”

And he does. And it sucks. And he kind of hates that listening to Tim is an automatic response even when he sure as hell doesn’t feel like it. And even more than that, he hates that he actually _does_ feel better now.

Kon breathes, and rubs at the side of his eyes, and keeps his gaze on the ceiling.

“Think you can talk without getting choked up?” Tim asks. And it’s not an accusation, or even saying that Kon’s crying is inconvenient. Just a question. When Kon doesn’t respond, he sighs. “Do you just… want to tell me what all that was about?”

“I don’t know, would you actually want to hear it if I did?”

It would sound way more badass if Kon’s voice hadn’t cracked in three separate places. Tim looks like he’s been slapped for the second time that night.

“I—I wouldn’t ask if I couldn’t handle…”

Kon dares him to finish that sentence. To say that he could actually handle it all of a sudden—as if he hasn’t been shutting Kon down every time he’s tried to talk about what happened.

But when Tim just looks guilty, Kon almost regrets it.

Kon rubs his face again, then swallows the lump in his throat that’s already started to collect again. “I just—god,” he manages. “Can you please stop acting like it’s a bigger inconvenience to you that I died, than it was for me to—for me to have been killed?”

He can’t look at his boyfriend. Not after finally saying it out loud.

Tim doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t touch him, doesn’t try to hug him, doesn’t try to counter his point or provide logic as a buffer to anything.

Kon kind of hates his superhearing right then. He hates that he can hear Tim’s heartbeat as background noise—hates that he hears it change speeds, hears his blood pressure increase from the stress of being called on his shit.

Then finally, finally, Tim takes the initiative. “That’s how I’m making you feel?”

“Every time.”

“I’m sorry.”

It’s not the words he’s expecting, but Kon will take them in a heartbeat, even if his reflex is to counter-apologize. “No. Sorry. I—I shouldn’t have pushed. I…”

Tim puts up a hand to silence him. “Stop. I’m apologizing because I have you in _tears_ over something that I’ve been doing for months, Kon. I genuinely didn’t know it bothered you this much.  I can’t apologize for not knowing—so that’s not it. But I still should have thought about what I was doing and how it would come across. So yes, I’m sorry. You don’t get to tell me not to be.”

Kon lets out a shuddering breath. “Okay.”

Finally, Tim shifts a little closer. He pulls Kon into a half hug, and his fingers gently thread through his hair. “Are you… Is this you saying you need to talk about what happened?”

Kon swallows. When he speaks up, his voice is raspy. “Yeah. I—I don’t _want_ to. But I… It’s just been _sitting_ there. I feel like it’s just… like I’m not going to feel okay until it’s out in the open, until you get it—and you _didn’t_ _get_ _it_ , why I freaked on the last mission.”

Tim tenses. And Kon wants to punch something, thinking Tim’s shutting down again, reconsidering all of this and expecting Kon to shelve his feelings again. But instead, Tim’s hand slowly moves through his hair again. “The building rubble. I… didn’t want to… to discuss it at the time. I thought you felt better afterwards.”

“You didn’t want to discuss it, because I’m not allowed to talk about it,” Kon says miserably. “With you or anyone else.”

“That’s really what you think?” he says. Then he bites his lip, and says again, “I’m sorry, Kon.”

Kon presses his face into his boyfriend’s shoulder and neck. “It’s okay. I mean, it’s going to be okay. I’m going to be okay.” He might be trying to convince Tim more than himself, with that one. “It’s just… A lot. I keep wanting to… to get it out. But I can’t.”

“Because of me?”

Kon hesitates. He knows a flat out _yes_ would hurt his boyfriend. “A little,” he finally admits. “But it’s—I’ve never been good at talking about this stuff. So every little… roadblock that makes it even harder… It makes it feel just that much more impossible to feel okay again.”

“Kon…”

The hand in his hair still doesn’t stop, which is good, because Conner’s about _this_ close to crying again.

“I’m sorry you feel like you can’t talk about this,” Tim finally says. “And I’m sorry that I’m still probably not the right person for you to open up to.”

Kon knows he should’ve been expecting that. But it still feels like a punch to his stomach. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t acknowledge or argue Tim’s point. He should have seen it coming, that even after this, Tim still wouldn’t actually care enough to let Kon talk to him. His chest feels small but also far-too tight, like it shrunk but kept all the air inside.

Tim doesn’t care. Is that what it boils down to? That his boyfriend just doesn’t care?

“I’m not saying this to make you feel worse,” Tim says, like intention even matters when it makes him feel like this anyways. “I… I’m not doing this right, am I? Damn it. Kon… Conner, look at me.”

Conner finally pulls away. But his eyes are low, settled on the quilt than anything near Tim’s eyes.

Tim gently brushes hair out of Conner’s face. His forehead is gross and sweaty and frankly, Kon doesn’t know why his boyfriend is bothering. He just wants to lie down again and possibly never wake up. He’d do it in a heartbeat if it’ll keep him from all this embarrassment and this stupid vulnerability. “I only say I’m not the right person to talk to about this because I don’t know if I can actually support you as much as you need. I wish I could. Please believe me when I say that.”

Kon still doesn’t look up. “Why should I?”

“Just listen for a second, then. I just don’t want you to start telling me if it will send me back to… to how I was, when you were gone. I wouldn’t be able to be there for you if I started feeling like that again. Do you remember how distant I was when you first saw me?”

And he does, damn it all. He remembers how vacant and empty Tim had been. Twenty pounds of depression in a ten-pound bag. Driven, but stretched so thin that he would break if one more person left him. It had been all Kon could do to tell him that he _believed_ him. That he supported him looking for Bruce. Kon being there hadn’t seemed to matter much at all—there was no affection, no ‘I’m glad you’re alive’, nothing.

He doesn’t want Tim go to back to that place.

But god, it’s so unfair that those are the only options. That Kon continues feeling like this, or Tim goes back to that horrible mental place and neither of them get what they need.

“Yeah,” he finally says. “I remember. I don’t want that for you either.”

Tim shifts his hand down to Conner’s cheek, gently strokes those well-defined cheekbones. Sharper, lately, than usual. “I’d go back there if I had to, for you. If I had to feel like that for a day or two after hearing you out, that would be okay. But I don’t know that it’d just be a few days. And if I went back to that, I wouldn’t be able to help you, Kon. It wouldn’t be what you need. I’d just be there, totally empty, and internalizing every word. And I know you. You might feel awful that it feels like I don’t care, but I also know you’d rather hurt yourself and keep going on like this if it means you won’t hurt me.”

Kon’s stomach turns. He half wants to believe it’s just a cop-out by Tim, as an excuse not to listen, but…

“You left the Titans for _two months_ after you were mind-controlled by Lex.” Tim says it quietly, like Kon really needs the reminder. “After you hurt me while under his influence. You never did well with being isolated, but you holed up here, at the farm, for months. Right up until—”

This time, Conner is the one to cut him off. “I know what happened after.” They don’t need the reminder of Superboy Prime right now. Kon’s feeling drained enough as it is, and he knows Tim isn’t much better. Right this minute, he’s never wanted to talk about what happened less.

Tim manages a bitter smile. “If you hurt me while trying to feel better, it would just make us both feel worse. And I don’t want to see you like that again, Kon. You were miserable for all those weeks.”

“And I’ve been feeling miserable since I came back,” Kon says. “…I’m not arguing. I just don’t know what to do instead. It’s just—it’s like I’m going to break apart, and I don’t know how to stop.”

Tim pulls a little closer, expression bittersweet. Kon can see the hurt behind the compassion in his eyes. “Then let’s try to figure it out. Who else would you want to talk to about this?”

Kon swallows, hard. “I don’t know.”

“Don’t shut down possibilities before you even consider them.” Tim strokes his thumb over his cheek again, a soft admonition in his words even if his touch is still the gentlest thing Kon’s ever known. “How about another Super?”

“Like Clark?”

“Like Clark,” Tim agrees. “He’s died a few times himself. He’d get it, if no one else did.”

Kon looks up at the ceiling. “I’ll… think about it. He wouldn’t shut me down? It feels like—it’s not just you, who doesn’t… It’s like everyone wants me to just let it go.”

Tim hums. “If he tries to shut you down, he’ll have _me_ to reckon with,” he says. “Bruce, too. I can get him on my side, don’t think I can’t.”

Kon laughs, though it’s barely more than a breath.

“How about Ma,” Tim suggests. “I’m surprised she hasn’t tried already.”

It’s all Kon can do to close his eyes as he remembers the late nights looking at the stars, occasionally feeling Ma putting a blanket around his shoulders. But she hasn’t asked about the nightmares even when he’s obviously been losing sleep over them. And when he’s tried to voice it, she’s so focused on… on just telling him _that things are okay now_. Could he really talk to her about this without getting stopped a few sentences in?

“No,” he finally says. “With almost anything else, yeah. She’s been there for me a—a lot. A _lot_ , a lot. But—I don’t… I don’t feel right, putting that on her. I know it’s not fair, when I want to talk to you about it, but I—she’s… with Pa gone, and how many times Clark’s been…”

“You’re like a son to her,” Tim finally says. “Alright. I don’t get it, since Jason talks to Bruce about it sometimes, but I won’t push.”

Kon breathes a sigh through his nose. “Sorry.”

“Stop apologizing,” Tim says. “I’m trying to think. Do you want someone super close to you, or would you prefer someone a little more distant? So you can be honest, without having to sugar-coat it?”

“I wouldn’t sugar-coat—”

“Don’t even try to say you wouldn’t. If it was Bart, I bet you’d _lead_ with the phrase, ‘I’m fine,’” Tim warns. “So. Distance?”

“I could try.”

Tim nods. Then he moves to sit down on Kon’s lap. Not to overwhelm him or give their moment a… different vibe. Just to be close without having to be on his feet. Kon instinctually wraps his arms around his boyfriend’s waist, and Tim gently balances on his knee and rubs a hand up and down his broad back. “What about a Titan?”

“What, like, on the team with us?”

“No. A _Titan_ , not a Teen Titan. Older. Dick’s age, about.”

Kon remembers Wally joking about a support group, and he can’t deny that it had seemed like a good idea when it was proposed. “Like… Wally or Donna or Roy?”

“Yeah.” Tim runs a hand through Conner’s hair. “What do you think?”

“I think it’ll be awkward as hell asking them to take all my feelings when I barely know any of them and I was almost directly responsible for Donna’s death a few years ago.”

Tim makes a disapproving noise in his throat. “Stop. We’ve been down that road enough.”

“Fine.” He pauses. “I could do Wally or Roy.”

“Not Dick?”

“He’s your brother, it’d be like Jon going to you,” Kon says. “I mean, I wouldn’t be totally against that, it’s just…”

“Just think about it, okay? Donna’s better at emotional issues than Dick by a long shot, but Dick’s still more… grounded, I think, than Roy and Wally. But anyone is better than the no one you’re currently talking to.”

And Kon has to hand it to him—Tim’s pretty good at logicking Conner into clearer plans.

“Alright,” he finally sighs. “I’ll do it.”

“Which one—or ones?”

“Dick,” he says. “And maybe Wally and Clark.”

“There. We have a plan.”

Tim pulls back enough to look at Kon and smile at him, expression so much more hopeful than it was twenty minutes ago. Kon doesn’t totally feel like smiling yet, but he tries anyways. Then, Conner pulls him close again, wrapping his arms tight around his boyfriend. Tim doesn’t seem to mind, just returning the hug and giving his boyfriend a solid squeeze.

They’re quiet for a moment. They hold each other without a word while balanced on the edge of Kon’s bed. It’s a far better use of his bed than earlier—when all he did was lie down and mope while his thoughts raced and flashbacks took him over.

Still, after a few minutes of peace and quiet, Tim speaks up.

“I’m sorry for making you feel like your feelings didn’t matter,” Tim says. “I can’t imagine how awful that made you feel.”

Kon makes a soft sound in the back of his throat. “’s okay,” he says. “I’m sorry you’re still struggling with everything that happened that year.”

“I should probably talk to someone about that. You’re not the only one who should be getting help.” Kon resists the urge to say ‘you think?’ but Tim’s not finished quite yet. “I’ll probably reach out to Dick, too, now that he and I are on speaking terms again.”

Kon gives his boyfriend a squeeze to show his support. Tim lets out a slightly choked sound, and Kon realizes just how hard he’s hugging him before loosening his grip. Instead of sounding pained, Tim just dramatically sucks in a breath and laughs.

“ _Superstrength_.”

“Ma just calls it a bear hug. You telling me you aren’t tougher than Ma?”

“I would never suggest such a thing,” Tim says, mock horrified. “That’s like saying you’re stronger than Alfred. It’s basically heresy.”

Kon laughs a little. He’s quiet for another moment—they both are. Some of the tension is broken, but there’s still something that needs said. So finally, finally, he leans back and looks at his boyfriend’s face. “We’ll get this figured out,” he says. “Both of us.”

Tim presses a kiss against Kon’s temple, fingers curling up and tracing his knuckles against his boyfriend’s cheek. “We’d better.” There’s something soft and perfect in Tim’s eyes, and Conner feels starstruck the longer he looks into them. “I’ve lost you in enough ways. I won’t drive you away if I can help it.”

When Kon leans forward to kiss him, it’s slow and sweet, and he puts in every ounce of neediness he’s felt but couldn’t act on in the last six months. When he pulls away, he reaches up to run a hand through Tim’s newly cropped hair. “You won’t,” he says. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

He believes it. And Kon’s pretty sure that Tim believes it, too.

For the first time in ages, the chasm in Kon’s chest feels a little smaller. It isn’t gone yet, and he’s not sure it ever will be. But it’s a start.

 

 


End file.
